


On the Knife's Edge

by vaarsuvius



Category: The Order of the Stick
Genre: Dubious Consent, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaarsuvius/pseuds/vaarsuvius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s playing with fire, but even just that knowledge gives you the rush you crave. You always did like danger, and Belkar Bitterleaf is nothing if not dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Knife's Edge

He’s rough with you. When Inkyrius touched you, it was always softly, with a ‘can I,’ ‘may I.’ The halfling spares you no such niceties, fisting his hands in your hair and wrestling you to the ground. His stature is small but it belies a strength that easily overcomes your flimsy, half-formed protests. And he kisses you.

You expect him to be all teeth and nails, at first, but the reality is much softer and warmer and unspeakably more terrifying. He’s harsh and insistent, yet his touches are teasing and light, almost certainly done on purpose to rile you up. Even knowing that, you can’t keep from arching against him, your cheeks flushing in shame and arousal.

He smirks and slips his hands, calloused and scarred, down to your hips, further. A keening noise escapes your throat, unbidden. His mocking laughter echoes in your ears and you’ve never felt so humiliated. He makes you ache with a desire you’ve never felt before, not for Inkyrius, not for anyone. He reaches into your heart and pulls at the darkest parts there, coaxes them out with a promise of fulfillment and like-minded company.

You kiss him back, sloppily, but if your technique isn’t satisfactory he doesn’t say anything about it. He straddles your waist and grinds against you and it’s so filthy and lewd and awful and it feels so, so good. The friction sends pleasure like electric shocks shooting up from your belly all the way out to your fingertips and you feel dizzy and drunk off it.

Your mind, always so full of strings of thoughts and ideas, is now focused on one thing and one thing only, a pure and undiluted sensation of wanting. Wanting this, more of this, wanting the halfling, wanting his hands, fingers, pressing into every part of your skin at once, wanting his touch to mark you and burn you and brand you a monster because that’s what you feel like right now. You’re still technically a married elf and you would die before you ever said you didn’t love Inkyrius but you never once felt like this with them. You feel lightheaded and giddy, not unlike the feeling of watching corpses smolder after a particularly successful spellcasting.

Belkar makes you feel like you’re getting away with something horrible, like the word ‘guilt’ doesn’t exist and you could literally do anything and justify it with a shrug. He gives you a rush, a power-drunk sensation of endless possibilities and no limits. The kind of world Belkar lives in is one you could live in too, if only you reached out for it.

You can’t, you know you can’t, you would never. This taste of it, though, rutting senselessly against him in the dark, clutching at him and pleading soundlessly for more, this you allow yourself to have. It’s playing with fire, but even just that knowledge gives you the rush you crave. You always did like danger, and Belkar Bitterleaf is nothing if not dangerous.

He never bothers to do more than a minute or so of prep for you, but you hardly care. It would be strange for him to show anything like care for your wellbeing. Besides that, the pain feels good, feels like penance for the multitudes of your sins.

You’ve never believed overmuch in praying for mercy—that’s generally more the territory of those aligned with good. Neutral beings such as yourself are generally more in favor of letting the cards fall where they may. That said, you feel like the scales of your alignment are slipping steadily toward what Belkar calls ‘the deep end of the alignment pool,’ and perhaps a little penance here and there can’t hurt in evening it back out.

The pain eases after a few minutes, making your alignment crisis a moot point. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and fucks you into cheap inn mattress until tears sting your eyes from the effort of trying to keep quiet. The other party members are roomed on either side of yours, and Belkar seems determined to fuck sounds out of you that you’ll never live down if they hear them.

His mouth moves in a stream of vulgar curses, comments, promises, the words mostly falling on deaf ears but the meaning conveyed perfectly clearly. His voice is husky and near dripping with want and just feeling the extent of the halfling’s lust for you has you digging your nails into the meat of his arms and biting your lips to the point of pain.

His breath is hot on the shell of your ear as he pants with the exertion of pounding you raw. You’re panting too, you realize, your breath is ragged and your muscles ache from pushing yourself up to meet the halfling’s thrusts. You can feel his fingers wearing more bruises into your hips, little purple marks that will blossom into huge multicolored blotches that you’ll cover with your robe in the morning.

You breathe his name unconsciously and his breath catches. The name hangs in the air between you, the both of you frozen by the sudden intimacy. He adjusts his grip on you then, and fucks you with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. You can’t hold in the sounds anymore, the two syllables that escaped your mouth evidently opening the way for a litany of helpless cries and whimpers. His words in your ear are more obscene than ever and though you suspect half the things he’s saying he’ll do to you are not physiologically possible, they still make you blush to the tips of your ears.

You’re drenched in sweat and babbling responses in the affirmative to Belkar’s absurd suggestions, practically begging, yes, please, _please_ , anything. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to at the moment, can’t even process what’s coming out of your own mouth. All you can concentrate on is the heat building in your stomach that threatens to consume you. You want to be consumed, to catch alight like one of your own fireballs and burn to ashes so you don’t have to look at yourself anymore.

In the split second that you come, with Belkar’s hand twisting your hair hard enough to be agonizing and his breath hot and heavy on your neck, you do feel like you’re dying, like you yourself are disintegrating and it’s nothing less than you deserve. The moment ends as soon as it begins and Belkar presses you down into the bed as you jerk and writhe beneath him, keening through clenched teeth.

He’s much more experienced with this than you are, infinitely more composed as he maneuvers himself expertly to come on your face, the only sound from his lips a quiet hiss of satisfaction. He wipes it off your cheek sloppily, forces your mouth open and makes you suck it off his fingers. Even in your post-coital state you’re undeniably aroused by this and he knows it, knows you’ll comply because you’re just as disgusting as he is. He’s the only one who sees the tarnish on you, the only one who even cares to look.

You entice him, the only one in this damned group that’s not ‘good.’ He sees you waver, watches you with hungry eyes as you walk the thin knife’s edge of true neutrality. He sees the scars on you and knows you’ve fallen before, wants to see you do it again. He doesn’t hate you, though sometimes you think you’d prefer that. No, he knows what you’re capable of and he loves you for it, in a way that only someone like him could love someone like you.


End file.
